One

Frost bites the grass this morning. The old woman pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Beneath her, the rickety chair she wrestled from the porch creaks as if it, too, aches from the chill. The old woman pats the chair’s arm, like she’s comforting an old friend. She turns to stare at the house behind her. The house that used to belong to a girl she loves dearly. No one lives there, now. The old woman has kept it in order as best she can, but at her age, she’s barely capable of keeping one small house clean, let alone two. She sighs and turns back to the distant horizon, where sunlight creeps into the sky.

Autumn was brief this year and winter came swiftly on its heels. The temperature dropped and the rains arrived early, ruining the last of the summer crop. The old woman frowns. Soon, the Fei field workers and Oritch orchard hands will rise from their beds. There’s still work to be done on the land. Windfall must be gathered from the orchards. There’s veg to be harvested from the glasshouses and the Fei workers will be doing their best to salvage the last of the crop. The old woman is too arthritic for such work, but that’s ok. She’s Aldren. Elder-caste. Her back might not be strong enough, anymore, to dig or plant or cajole a plough horse, but her tongue is sharp enough to scold unruly children and her eyes haven’t failed so much, yet, that she can’t thread a needle when clothes need mending.

The sun lifts above the horizon and the old woman squints at its brightness. She doesn’t know why she still bothers to sit out here, behind the haphazard dwellings, staring out across the grasslands to where the village territory ends and the world seems to go on forever. But she’s been doing it a long time now. She’s hoping someone will appear on that horizon. Three someones, actually. A ruddy-cheeked woman with a mouthful of sass, a boy who’ll be nearly nine now, with meadow-green eyes and a power that took even the old woman by surprise, and a girl who was once a soldier but became a hero. A girl with dark hair and eyes and clear, pale skin that tans easily. A girl taller than the stocky, red-haired, freckle-flecked type normally seen in the village. Who walks, proud, on a prosthetic limb. The old woman murmurs her name, as if the wind might carry it across Alphor to draw the girl home.

“Solma.”

But it’s barely more than a whisper. And nothing happens.

The old woman sits back in her chair, remembering. Remembering Solma as a solemn youngster just after her parents died. Remembering when Solma first joined the Gatra—the soldier-caste of Alphor. It was the old woman, six years ago, who tramped across Alphor, to ruins of the old-world, to find the prosthetic limb Solma wears. She remembers nursing Solma after she lost her leg, holding her hand while the girl drifted in and out of consciousness. The old woman had told her, “Don’t you dare die, girl. Don’t you dare.”

Solma didn’t die. And the old woman is mighty glad about that. But now, with everything that’s happened here in the last year, the old woman thinks the village needs her back. So, she waits here every morning, watching the horizon.

And hoping.

Movement to her left and the old woman stirs, glancing aside to see two figures, dressed in the black uniforms of the Gatra, loping towards her. She huffs a sigh and returns her attention to the horizon. The soldiers stop a few feet away and she casts them a narrow-eyed glance. A boy and a girl. She knows them. She doesn’t want them here and so resolves to ignore them. The boy-soldier hooks his thumbs into his belt and stands silently. The girl nudges him.

“We should go,” she says.

The boy nods but doesn’t move. His rifle is slung over his shoulder, but the old woman eyes the wicked hunting knife sheathed at his hip, and the pistol holstered beside it.

“Up early again, Gerta?” the boy-soldier says. His voice is soft, but it still makes Gerta bristle. She sucks irritably on her few remaining teeth.

“What’s it look like?”

The boy-soldier chuckles and Gerta glares at him. “Don’t you sass me, Aldo,” she snaps. “Remember, I cuffed your ears enough times to knock at least a little sense into you.”

The girl-soldier turns to say something sharp but Aldo touches her arm. The girl mutters and turns aside.

Aldo, though, smiles. Gerta studiously avoids looking at him. She spent a good six months furious with this kid, back when he’d been a shy, allergy-ridden thirteen-year-old, freshly recruited into the village guard. Both these kids had been in a squad with Solma. And they, like many others, had turned on her when she’d needed them. They’d sided with the Steward—that vile snake of a man. Like everyone, they’d been scared and desperate. Gerta stares past Aldo to the girl-soldier he’s with.

“Still can’t look at me, Ilga?” Gerta croaks. “Two-faced coward.”

Ilga rounds on the old woman. Her lank, red-brown hair falls across her eyes, half-masking the furious gleam in them.

“Don’t you dare—”

Aldo grips Ilga’s wrist. Not hard, but firm enough to give her pause. She glares at him as he shakes his head.

“Not the time,” he says. Ilga bares her teeth.

“Never is,” she says, casting Gerta a dark glance. “Thinks she can say whatever she wants and there ain’t no consequences. She’s trouble.”

“She’s hurting,” Aldo says. He says it quietly, perhaps expecting Gerta not to hear. But she does. And a painful lump forms in her throat.

“She sided with the traitor,” Ilga growls.

Traitor. Gerta flinches at the word and bites the inside of her cheek. That’s what they call Solma. They don’t say her name anymore. Never mention how often she risked her life for her people. Traitor. Because she told the truth and was exiled for it. Gerta grips the arms of her chair, resists the urge to hurl insults at the pair of them.

Aldo sighs. “The others are late,” he says. “Go knock on their doors. We got patrol.”

“But—”

“Now, Ilga.”

Ilga’s glare darkens. She wrenches her wrist free of Aldo’s grip and stalks away, disappearing between the patchy houses.

Aldo stands in silence for a bit, until Gerta finally turns to look at him. She’s startled by the changes the last year and a half have wrought on him. He’s stronger. Tougher. A proper soldier now. His eyes are still blotchy from allergy, but his arms ripple with muscle. Life as a soldier has hardened him. And he’s not as bad as some of the others.

Gerta had been hopeful last year, when Solma and her brother had exposed Blaiz, the Steward, for the tyrant he really was. But they’d been cast out. Blaiz’s son, Maxen, has been in charge since then, minding the village for when his father wakes from the coma those bee stings put him in. He’s mad, Gerta reckons, to think his father will wake. Mad to run this village the way he has.

More and more youngsters recruited as soldiers. The Fei and Oritch working the land under constant guard. Dissent quashed at gunpoint and rebels vanishing without a trace. He rules like his father. Gerta’s fingers itch at the thought. That young wretch. She’s been dying to rap the back of her hand across his face for some time now, but she knows where that would get her.

Exile at her age? She wouldn’t even make it five minutes.

Actually, she would. Gerta’s more resourceful than people realize. But in the face of a hungry wildwolf … Gerta’s no fighter.

Aldo’s still standing beside her, saying nothing.

“What you want, boy?” Gerta asks. Aldo shrugs.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just thought I’d wait with you.”

Gerta wriggles in her chair. “Don’t need babysitting,” she growls. “Sun’s up. Ain’t you got Fei to terrify?”

For the first time, Aldo looks uncomfortable. Gerta allows herself a small smile. So, he sees how he’s being used to tyrannise the village, does he? Good. Let the guilt of that fester in him. Maybe he’ll grow brave enough to stand up to the teenage dictator.

Aldo lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squinting at the horizon. Gerta frown, then follows his line of sight. She sits up straighter, gripping the arms of her chair so tightly her arthritic knuckles scream.

“Can’t be,” Aldo says, dropping his hand. “I … oh, Gerta …”

Three figures have appeared on the horizon. One tall and imposing, walking with a swagger. The other two smaller, just kids. One of the kids grips the other tightly by the arm. As Gerta watches, the tallest figure lifts his hand to the sky and fire appears in it, burning red against the pale, morning blue.

Gerta swears. As quick as her stiff joints allow, she’s out of her chair, leaning heavily on her cane, hoping against hope that it isn’t—

But there’s no mistaking those figures. Gerta’s heart constricts. When Maxen sent those two raiders—the violet-eyed man and his son, who can make fire with nothing but a thought—on a mission out of the village, Gerta had hoped, guiltily, that they might die out there.

But here they are, both smirking in that smug, triumphant way Gerta has learned to hate. More figures appear on the horizon. Gerta counts twelve others in all. They have weapons slung over their shoulders or holstered on their hip. Gerta shields her eyes as they come closer. They’re all in black, but she doesn’t recognise most of them. Young, arrogant. They were soldiers somewhere, at some point. What have the Fire Maker and his boy been doing this past year?

As they draw near, the violet-eyed man spots Gerta. His lip curls. The sun glints off the flame tattoo above his eyebrow.

“You’re up early, old woman,” he rumbles. Gerta glares at him.

“Vulkan,” she says, spitting his name. “I hoped you’d died.”

Vulkan laughs. His son, Ignis, flattens a mop of black hair over his forehead, still clinging to the arm of the boy beside him. “Stop wriggling, will you?” he snaps.

The boy he holds will not stop wriggling. Tears pour freely down his face. His clothes are ragged, torn and caked with dirt. He swears at Ignis, hate shining in his eyes.

Meadow-green eyes.

“Warren,” Gerta breathes. She drops her cane and gathers the boy into a hug. “Bless the Earth! I never thought I’d see you again! Where’s your sister? Your aunt?”

She pulls back so Warren can talk, but he just hangs his head and sobs. Gerta’s heart flutters and she scowls at Vulkan.

“What d’you do?” she demands. “What happened?”

Vulkan shoulders past Gerta with a grunt. “Our job,” he says. “And get off that kid. He’s a prisoner.”

“He ain’t!” Gerta yells. “He’s one of ours! How dare you—”

Vulkan’s hand lands hard across Gerta’s face. Without her cane, she loses her balance and stumbles, only avoiding a fall because Aldo catches her. There’s a mutter from the twelve soldiers gathered behind Vulkan, but no one steps forward to help.

Gerta’s too shocked to cry out. Instead, she clutches her face and stares at Vulkan with wide, frightened eyes. Aldo helps her upright and hands her the cane she dropped, by which time she’s regained enough of her senses that she’s no longer frightened. She’s angry. Batting Aldo away, she glares at Vulkan.

“You let that boy go,” she says. “He needs his sister.”

Warren has stopped crying. Instead, he looks at Vulkan with hate in his eyes. Ignis tries to grab his arm again but Warren twists away. Vulkan rolls his eyes.

“I don’t care what he needs,” he snarls. “He’s here now. He’s ours. Maxen’s orders.”

Gerta feels the anger building into something deep and bitter in her chest. She bares her teeth. “Maxen,” she says, “Can go and—”

Vulkan raises his hand again and Gerta flinches. Vulkan laughs, turning his back on her. He grabs Warren’s arm in his huge hand and drags the boy away.

“Gerta!” Warren cries over his shoulder. Gerta says nothing, just watches the kid being hauled towards the village centre. Towards the Steward’s house. The soldiers follow, ignoring Warren’s sobs. Gerta wipes her eyes, hating the wetness she feels there. She turns on Ignis.

“Proud of yourself, are you?” she says.

Ignis glares and shrugs. “Just doing my job, lady,” he mumbles. “Ain’t my fault, is it?”

He meets her gaze, his own full of defiance. But Gerta searches his face and finds a flicker of uncertainty there. She draws herself up to her full height, which isn’t much. She isn’t even taller than this jumped-up kid.

“We all got choices, boy,” she says. “You made yours, and it’ll come back to bite you one day.” She pushes her face close to his, pleased when he takes a step back. “I don’t like this,” she says. “And I’m betting half the village won’t like it, either.”

Ignis’ lip twists into a sneer. “Ain’t their choice, is it?” he says. “They ain’t in charge. And when the crop gets pollinated next year, I’m betting they won’t complain much.”

He steps close to her again. Gerta smells burning and Ignis lifts his hands so she can see the flames dancing on his fingertips. “You keep your beak outta this, old lady,” Ignis says. “Don’t reckon Maxen’ll miss a doddery old sack of bones like you. One less mouth to feed.”

Gerta glares. She wants to slap this boy. He deserves no less. But a hand touches her shoulder, and she turns to see Aldo. The soldier boy stares hard at Ignis.

“That’s enough now,” he says. “Like you said, Ignis, you got a job to do.”

Ignis glowers, then turns on his heel and stalks after this father and the soldiers. Gerta catches him cast one last glance over his shoulder and she reckons there’s fear in his eyes.

Good. Because she’s got no intention of letting this go. And if she knows Warren and his family, that sister of his won’t be far behind.

Aldo’s hand is still on her shoulder. He guides her back to her chair. “Bad idea, Gerta,” he says softly. “Those two are dangerous. ‘Specially Vulkan, he—”

Gerta twists out of Aldo’s grip and rounds on him. “Solma would never’ve let them treat her brother like that,” she hisses. “Solma would’ve fought. None’a you are fit to lick the dirt off her boots. Call yourselves soldiers? Reckon you’re brave?”

Aldo stares, saying nothing. Gerta shakes her head.

“You, standing there, doing sod all, it’s just as bad,” she says.

“Gerta—”

“Leave me,” Gerta says. Aldo hesitates.

“I said, leave!”

Aldo trudges away. Gerta eases into her chair and touches her stinging cheek. As the rage ebbs, despair sits heavily on her chest. She wipes her eyes again and peers at the horizon.

“Come on Solma,” she mutters, almost in prayer. “Hurry up.”

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